Assassins Cry, Too
by rundaria
Summary: But an Assassin? Are you crazy, my boy? Is that what we sent you to a good swordsman's school for? To marry an Assassin? [Oneshot, so sue me.]
1. Assassins Cry, Too

To begin with, my brother Adair fell in love eleven times on the road from Morroc to Geffen three years ago, and so it was no surprise, at me at least, when he announced at supper one night that we wanted my parents' permission to marry.

After all, marriage seemed the be the inevitable destination of love, and I marvelled that he had not married long before.

My father took the news without expression, his doorway-wide shoulders hunched over that table as he chewed the stewed Picky meat slowly and deliberately, but my mother flushed deeply, paled, looked at my father in horror and back at Adair in disbelief. My other brothers and sisters immediately set up a chorus of hoots and whistles, like a throng of Pecopecos on the attack.

"But you're only eighteen," my mother protested, automatically passing the bowl of mashed potatoes to Eleanor. Her appetite shamed my mother but was a thing of pride to my father, who believed that an enormous quantity of food was as important to children as an enormous quantity of beer was to men.

"Well, if I'm old enough to work, I'm old enough to get married," Adair answered, addressing my mother defiantly while his eyes were sliding apprehensively to me father. Adair seldom looked uncertain. Hundreds of times I had seen him spear a monster with finesse and send it reeling into the afterlife. He had set up a small shop with a Merchant friend, selling baubles and trinkets for ladies. And somehow he always found time for love.

"That's what makes the world go round, Jerry-boy," he'd tell me as I watched him combing his hair prior to a date.

I was much younger than Adair and had my private thoughts about love foolish and unnecessarily troublesome, involving going to terrible events and wearing wedding suits on a casual day. Yet, I had to admit that if Adair pursued love so faithfully, certainly there must be some good in it.

At the supper table that night, however, I did not envy him and I suddenly realised that he had gradually changed in the past few months. He had been vague about the nature of his dates and he had been alternately happy and morose. Sometimes, he sat on the trailer's steps in the evening, staring at nothing in particular and would dismiss me with a curt shake of his head when I asked him if he wanted to train with me or set up targets for my Novice training.

"How much are you making at the shop?" my father asked, reaching for another slice of bread.

"Fifty zeny an hour and I'm due for a raise next month," Adair answered.

"How much have you saved?"

"Two hundred thousand zeny. And she's got almost as much. She's a nomad like us and she doesn't mind questing to help us get settled."

"She… she," my mother said, exasperated. "Who is this _she?_"

"Yes, which one?" Eleanor asked. Her appetite apparently has been dealt a fatal blow by the announcement, because she had put down her fork although her plate was still half full. "Is it Donna or Trixie or Yvonne or Jeanne?"

My mother silenced her with a look.

"I thought you said there was safety in numbers, Ma," Howard offered. Howard was the smart one, a Mage with a memory so acute that he got on your nerves.

"Enough," my father commanded like a PvP master counting down. He turned to Adair. "My son, you're no longer a boy. You've been working more than a year since becoming a Knight. You've found out what it means to earn a living. And I admit that a man needs love and marriage and children."

My mother snorted with disgust. She always claimed my father was incurably romantic, and she dreaded wedding receptions and anniversary parties at Prontera Church, because he always got sentimental and maudlin and drank too much beer and insisted on proposing innumerable toasts to the glories of love or singing old Comodian ballads about people dying of broken hearts.

"Would it be too much to tell us the name of this girl who is coming into the family?" my mother asked.

Adair scratched his head and tugged at his sleeve: a bad sign.

"Vianne Stormrage," he said at last.

"Vianne?" Eleanor asked. "What kind of a name is that?"

"Stormrage… Stormrage," my mother mused.

"An Assassin," Howard exclaimed, his voice like a door slamming shut.

My mother made the sign of the cross, and in the awesome silence that followed we turned out eyes to my father. His head was bowed and his huge shoulders sagged in defeat. His knuckles were white where his hands gripped the table. I too clutched the table, tensing myself for the explosion to come. But when my father raised his head at last, there was no violence in his manner, although his voice filled me with fear because it was terrible in its quietness.

"All right," he said wearily. "You don't want a good Priestess, fine. Maybe you don't like the smell of holy water. And a Dancer, fine, maybe you don't like singing. And an Alchemist, that, too, is all right if you don't like herbs." Fury gathered in his eyes. "But an Assassin? Are you crazy, my boy? Is that what we sent you to a good Swordsman's school for? Is this what you were a Knight for? To marry an Assasin?"

"I love her," Adair said, leaping to his feet. "This isn't the peaceful days anymore, Pa. This is the age of the War of Emperium, 4539…"

"Adair, Adair," my mother whispered, a pleading in her voice.

"Hey, Adair," Howard asked, bright an interested. "What kind of Assasin?"

"What do you mean – what kind?" my father roared.

"Agility," Adair said. "She bases on Agility and quests; she doesn't steal things for money. She's a good girl. She believes in God…"

Excitement danced in my veins. I had never known an Assassin. My family had been attacked too many times by them, and my father always pulled me away when he saw one. Suddenly, my excitement fled by a sudden sense that the world was crumbling at my feet. My loyalty moved toward my father and mother, although I still ached for Adair, who stood at the table like some lonely hero who finds his deeds stricken fro the rolls of honour.

My father suddenly relaxed. He shrugged and smiled. "Well, why should we get excited?" he asked my mother. "This week an Assassin and next week maybe a… a Succubus. And the week after that..."

"Next week and next year and forever, it will still be Vianne," Adair cried. "This isn't puppy love, Pa. I've been going out with her for seven months."

For Adair, of course, this was some kind of record.

"Seven months?" my father asked, astounded. You've been going out with an Assassin for seven months behind my back?"

"Not behind your back," Adair said. "Have I ever brought any girl home here? No, Because I wanted to wait until I met the right one. And Vianne's the right one…"

"Well, don't plan on bringing _her_ here," my father said. "I don't want her name mentioned again under this roof." He banged his fist on the table and a dish fell to the floor. My mother jumped up in alarm, and Adair turned on his heel and left the house, slamming the door behind him.

So began what my brother Howard described as the Six-month War of the Proudmoore family, and the war was usually fought at the supper table. My father was not a man for stiff rules, but he has always insisted that the entire family be home for supper, to break bread together at least once a day. Even Adair in his rebellion dared not break that law.

Otherwise, however, he became a silent and brooding figure, spending little time at home. He worked all day in his shop and went off to meet Vianne every evening. He didn't whistle off-key any more as he dressed for his dates, and he acted as though we all had become invisible to him. Howard said that a kind of doom hung over our house. He was melodramatic and often used words like _doom_ and _holocaust_, and yet I had to admit that Adair's troubles had cast a shadow over us all.

Supper time because exercises in agony.

"You know Tanin Hawkwing, the merchant?" My father would ask my mother with a quiet air of victory, "Well, he was delivering food at a fancy Assassin wedding last Saturday. He said that it was disgusting. Nobody sand any songs, nobody danced and nobody even got drunk. They stood around and ate sandwiches made with crackers. People who don't sing and dance at a wedding: they don't have hearts…"

One day I burst into the house after finally becoming a Swordsman and found the trailer unusually quiet, all the kids gone off somewhere, and my father at work. I heard voices inside and was about to enter when I halted in my tracks, held back by the intimate quality of the voices.

"I know, I know, Adair," my mother was saying. "I agree that she's a nice girl. Polite and charming. But going behind your fathers' back to meet her is one thing – inviting her here, without warning him, Is another…"

"But don't you see, Ma," Adair said, "that he thinks all Assassins are some kind of monsters because he's never really known one? I'll bet he's never spoken more than five minutes with an Assassin. You met Vianne. You say she's a fine girl. I think Pa will, too, if he has the chance to meet her…"

"I still get the shivers wondering what he'll say when he learns that I've met her, that we sat down in a café and had coffee…"

"Please, Ma," Adair pleaded. "His bark is worse than his bite. You always said he's a sentimental man.

"I don't know, Adair, I don't know," she said, her voice tender and troubled.

I drew back in horror, appalled at the conspiracy, my mothers' treachery, her disloyalty to my father. I ran up the street to meet him; and as I saw him stalking home from the days' training, I became aware for the first time of my father as a _person_, not simply a big man who either roared with anger or boomed with laughter, who consumed incredible amounts of beer and whose word was law.

Knowing that he could be betrayed gave him a sudden, human countenance. I studied the deep lines on his face, the network of wrinkles near his eyes that had always fascinated me because of their resemblance to spider webs, and I realized that they were the result of long hard days at work and the problems of bringing up the family.

And instead of bursting out my information, I remained silent and carried his huge sword in its sheath, shy with him suddenly and warm and itchy all over my body.

The following Sunday afternoon, I cried out in astonishment as I glanced out the trailers' spotless window and saw Adair coming along the sidewalk with a girl. He held her elbow tenderly, as if she were fragile and precious beyond price. He didn't look where he was going but gazed at her raptly. I had to admit that I did not blame him for staring at her: she was slender and blond and lovely, dressed in the standard Assassins' uniform and making it beautiful, and its colorlessness contrasted with the soft tones of her delicate face.

The wind rose suddenly and she lifted her hand to hold her fluttering scarves down, the gesture filled with grace. I myself would have gladly run a mile to chase her scarf for her if the wind had chanced to blow it off.

My mother stood beside me, her cheeks flushed, her eyes wide with concern. She looked like the guilty party who is unmasked in the last chapter of the serials the Bards and Dancers put on in the streets on lazy Saturday afternoons.

"God help us," she whispered breathlessly. Straightening her shoulders and sighing, she called to my father: "Eldin, company's coming up the street…"

My father, who was on his bed reading a letter, groaned loudly. "Company? Who comes to disturb a man after dinner on a Sunday?" My father pretended that he only wanted privacy on weekends or in the evenings, but when company did arrive he played the part of a perfect host to the hilt, keeping the beer flowing and my mother busy serving food. People usually found it hard to leave because my father always insisted on one more drink, one more joke, one more argument.

My mother greeted Adair and Vianne at the tree our trailer was tethered to as my father moved to the dining table, yawning and straightening his guild crest. Adair's entrance caught him with his mouth wide open. My father jerked his collar, his mouth closed in surprise and he stood rigidly in the small room.

"This is Vianne Stormrage" Adair announced, his hand still at her elbow but protectively now. "Vianne, this is my father and mother." I had to suppress a giggle at his formality. "And my brother Jerry," he added, pointing to me. "The other kids are out somewhere, playing around."

Vianne smiled hesitantly and I saw her hand tremble at her side. Adair guided her to a chair. I wondered whether her cheeks gave her pain: that smile seemed to be hurting her. And no wonder, I thought, as I looked at my father, who stood like a figure of wrath in the doorway.

My mother seemed to be everywhere at once, adjusting the curtain, flicking an invisible speck of dust from the end table, touching Adair's shoulder and pushing me from the trailer. I heard the big leather chair creak menacingly as my father lowered himself into it.

Shamelessly, I stood near the door, straining to catch every sound and nuance of the conversation. My mother and Adair carried on a strange wandering discussion about the weather, talking at length of tumbling leaves and the great amount of rain that had fallen during the week and the way nights were becoming chilly. I was impatient for the foolish conversation to end. Finally, a huge silence settled in the room.

Sylvos Windrunner, an Archer my age, called to me from the outside and I remembered in dismay that we were supposed to go to see a play by one of his brothers. I didn't answer, hoping he would go away.

After a while, my father cleared his throat. "I was reading a letter from my guild," he said. "Do you follow the clan wars?"

I peeked into the room and saw Vianne sitting stiffly beside Adair. "I work solo," she said.

"Solo," my father said, as if that were the most ridiculous thing to do in the world. But I had seen him going questing alone dozens of times.

"She's very good," Adair offered. "She collects hats and sells them to merchants."

Silence again except for Sylvos' voice, sounding impatient and shrill now.

"Your father. Where does he work?" my father asked.

"In the Pronteran Bank," she answered.

"A banker?" my father inquired, giving the word the same contempt that he used for beggars.

"He's a teller," she amended.

"But he works in the bank," my father declared, with a kind of triumph.

"Yes," she answered, her voice strained.

Sylvos was setting up such a howl outside that I went to the road to meet him. Actually, I was somewhat relieved to end my eavesdropping because I shared the pain and embarrassment of Vianne Stormrage. Sylvos was worried that we would be late for the play, but my mind was still in the trailer.

"All right," I told him. "Let's go. But wait just one minute more…" I reentered the field where our trailer was parked and stood by the doorway again.

"God's Hand is the greatest guild the world ever had," my father was saying. "The greatest guild in the world."

"Kinshisareta is a great guild, too," Vianne answered, a hint of defiance in her voice.

I couldn't bear to listen any further and was happy to join Sylvos on the road. I was in a hurry to get to the theater, or anyplace that was far away from the inquisition going on in the parlor.

When I arrived home at supper time, my father was still in the leather chair, exuding an air of victory. His shoes were off and his feet extended luxuriously out on the floor. My mother busied herself at the stove: there was always something cooking there, morning, noon and night that needed her attention.

"And did you see her sitting there so prim and proper?" my father was asking. "What kind of girl is that? I tell you, it's like Tanin Hawkwing said. Assassins have no juices. Did you see the girl smile? No. Did she laugh? No. Any anyone who thinks that Kinshisareta is greater than God's Hand…" He shook his head in disbelief.

"Eldin… Eldin," my mother said. "She's a nice girl, a fine girl, and she loves your son. Does it matter what she thinks of God's Hand or Kinshisareta? Does it matter what her job is?" A bit of anger crept into her voice. "And how could you act so rude to a guest in your house?"

"But don't you see?" he asked. "I wanted to show Adair that the girl is not for him, that she would not fit into his life, into our life. She quests alone. She doesn't follow the clan wars. She probably steals hats and sells them, and it's plain to see she supports an enemy guild…"

"But she's hardly old enough to join a guild," my mother said.

"Well, maybe we'll see a change in Adair now," my father said, settling back, wriggling his feet, "Now that I've" – he groped for the word and pinned it down exultantly – "_exposed_ her."

My father's exposure of Vianne Stormrage did not affect Adair's love for her. In fact, he announced a few nights later that he was planning to give her an engagement ring for Christmas. My father closed his eyes when he heard the news and his lips moved in that I hoped was a silent prayer but feared was an oath too terrible for us to hear.

I looked at my father and Adair and my mother and did some praying of my own. I felt allegiance to my father whose oldest son was defying him, who was ready to turn his back on his family and who was no longer interested in such things as training for the sake of a girl.

Yet, I also sympathized with Adair because I agreed that Vianne was more beautiful than any girl in Geffen. And my heart also had room for my mother, torn between her husband and her son. When I saw the sorrow in her face as she looked at one and then the other, I easily forgave her for going behind my fathers' back to help Adair.

And yet.. yet, I was tired of the situation because it seemed to me that there were more important things in the world than love, and everytime I brought up one of these things – for instance, the frustrating December weather that had not turned cold enough for sliding – someone would tell me to go out and play or Howard would accuse me of having no appreciation of drama. I wanted to tell him that if drama was something that made your chest ache with strangeness, then I wanted no part of it.

We were all involved in a large drama, however, when the voice of the announcer on my fathers' communicator one Sunday afternoon stunned us with the news that my fathers' guild castle was under attack.

My father jumped fro, his chair in alarm and excitement, indignant to learn that someone had dared challenge the Gods' Hand guild.

We learned more about our guild castle and the cast number of different clans who wanted it in the weeks to come, and my father spent many hours at the communicator, shaking his head at the news, perpetually angry. He seemed to take it as a personal insult that his guild members were being wounded and dying on the other side of Midgard.

One supper time when my father, after the usual prayer of grace, added another prayer for the good Gods' Hand boys who were in battle, Adair said: "A good many of those boys are Assassins…"

My father paused, deep in thought. "And a good many more are Knights and other job classes, too," he answered after a while, the belligerency gone fro, his voice.

"Well, here's one Knight you can add to the roll. I'm going to enlist."

A sharp cry came from my mother, but somehow I only had eyes for my father. For the first time in months, he looked at Adair directly.

"No," my father protested. "You're just a boy…"

"I'm from the guild," Adair said.

"I thought you were going to get married in the spring," Howard interjected.

"Vianne and I talked it over," Adair said. "How can we get married when there's a war going on? She said she's willing to wait…" He looked at my father. "Pa, I want your permission to enlist. Me and Vianne, that's something else. I know you don't approve of us, but I'll tell you this much: as soon as I come back, we're going to be married."

"But why volunteer?" my father asked. "There are a lot of others who can go."

His question surprised me because it was obvious that Adair's enlistment would solve the problem of his romance. I pondered again the mysterious ways of grown-ups. For myself, I had no fear for Adair's safety. In my eyes, he has been born to become a hero, whether in training or in real battle, and I was sure of his indestructibility.

"Every man has his duty to perform," Adair said, and his words were quiet and somehow sad and gallant.

Incredibly, tears formed in the corners of my fathers' eyes. At first, I thought he must be sick because I had never seen him cry before. He sniffed and blew his nose and cleared his throat.

"Hey, Pa," Howard said. "You're crying."

"Who's crying?" my father bellowed, his wet eyes finding my mother, who sat stunned and grief-stricken across from him, her face cruelly bleak as if winter had blown across her features. "It's the onions in the soup," my father said. "These Geffenese onions always being tears to a man's eyes…"

The clock in the grand Geffen Tower in the square stroked the hour of nine and we listened to its echoes in the crisp morning air. The hired Priest who would teleport everyone to the castle fascinated me, his olive drab uniform giving an air of emergency to the gathering of people on the sidewalk. The fellows who were leaving for Prontera were not yet in full guild uniform, but already there was a hint of the military in their bearing. A Crusader in uniform with the guild crest paced the sidewalk impatiently near the bus.

My father and I stood with Adair in front of the armor store. My mother had remained at home, having kissed Adair goodbye without allowing tears to fall, and unwilling to take the chance of breaking down as he got into the portal. The other children were in school, but my father had allowed me to see Adair off.

"At least it'll be warm in Prontera," Adair said, his voice unnaturally thin and high-pitched, and his eyes searched the square, looking for Vianne. I saw her first, the blond hair vivid in the drabness of the morning, She walked swiftly toward us, opening her arms to Adair as she approached, but she arrested the gesture when she saw my father. They had not met since that terrible Sunday in the trailer.

My father shifted on one foot and then another, Finally, he looked down at me. "Come, Jerry, let's go find that Priest and ask him when the portal is opening…"

"Thanks, Pa," Adair said.

As we approached the Priest, the Crusader placed a silver whistle in his mouth and blew it fiercely. He nodded to the Priest, then called out: "Okay, you guys, fall in. On the double. On the double…" He would have made a fine cheerleader.

My father and I returned to Adair and Vianne, who were holding hands, huddled together as if the day had suddenly turned too cold to bear.

"It's time," my father said, touching Adair's shoulder.

Adair drew back his shoulders and shook hands with my father. He punched me lightly on the arm. He turned to Vianne and kissed her gently on the cheek and then gathered her in his arms, holding her closely. He pulled away from her abruptly and looked at us all for a long moment, his face pale and his chin trembling a little. And then he walked quickly toward the priest and was lost in the crowd of fellows who were leaving with him.

Vianne turned away from us. She kept her face averted as the square gradually filled, as the Crusader took one final look around, as the Priest began to cast his spell. Adair waved to us just before he stpped into the circle, but there was little comfort in that last glimpse.

Then the Priest looked around and stepped into the portal, which disappeared. The people began to disperse, and my father, Vianne and I seemed to be alone as if we were standing on a small invisible island there in the square. She still did not look at us, although I could see the reflection of her face in a store window. Clutching her coat the neck, she left us abruptly, walking away without warning.

My father watched her go, shrugging his shoulders.

"Pa," I said, "you were wrong."

"You do you mean, wrong?" he asked gruffly, pulling his handkerchief out of his pocket.

"You said Assassins have no heart, that they don't laugh or cry. Vianne was crying. I saw her face and she was crying just like you cried the other night at supper."

He looked at her retreating figure. He blew his nose feebly and the sound was not as magnificent as usual, barely audible above the merchant that was gathered, trying to boost sales. He lifted his arms and let them drop at his sides.

"There's no fool like an old fool," he said, mysteriously. Then: "Come, Jerry, let's go find her before she's too far away…"

I had to run to keep pace with him as we threaded our way through the crowd. We finally caught up with her near the fountain on the other side of the square. My father touched her arm, and suddenly she was folded in his embrace, and never before had I seen people look so happy while they were crying.


	2. Author's Note

**Author's Note **

Oh, for goodness' sake, you people are _hopeless_. Read the summary of this, it said ONESHOT. _ONE, SHOT_. Which means it won't have a second chapter. It just ended! Please exit the cinema by exiting through the doors marked, guess what,EXIT. So stop telling me to continue it. Did you copy-paste your reviews or something?

I might do a sequel, though, if you review enough. And beg. And also sit, roll over, stand on one leg while playing the recorder with your nose and juggling burning sticks. Not too much to ask, is it?

Love,

rundaria, author.

Playing the guitar with your toes is optional.


	3. Another Author's Note

Yet another Author's Note:

Yes, yes, I know, I'm just trying to push this back up to the first page so I can get more reviews. This author will not be held responsible for any injuries sustained after the reading of this fanfic.

Sanosuke.Cigara, Tsuki Hoshi Hikari, Death Graverheart Valentine, Sun-Obsessed, Annika Ricaforte Lee, moonlightgirl11, rabbit-ninja, Momo Phiy, Rukrezal, mia and Tom Valor, thanks for reviewing and showing your support! (I feel like a charity show host now. Please continue to call 1900-RUN-DARIA to make donations.) Whee!

To Mia: …typo!

To Tsuki Hoshi Hikari: …you serious? I didn't blow up. Actually, I was cheat-ily trying to shove my fic back up to the front again. Like I'm doing now. 

Okay, I am horrible and have just made you read two useless chapters. I shall write a poem for you!

Shameless, immodest, unaffected,

So does the ruthless heart lie.

Don't fret if you're unprotected,

For even the assassins cry.

... we'll be right back to the sequel after this short break, during which I will purchase a bullet-proof vest to protect from enraged readers.


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